Braided Destinies
by Roux
Summary: "They are not all accounted for, the lost Seeing Stones." A quest to retrieve something valuable to Middle-Earth. Includes OC/OC romance, adult themes, some graphic violence, and the archetypal time-traveling character. AU: Mists of Avalon crossover.
1. Prologue

Ninian watched from her bed as the man clothed himself; bronze skin shining in the firelight, his muscles rippling with the undeniable maleness that poured from his perfect body.  As he finished tying the last lace on his boot, he rose to his feet and strode to her side.  His eyes flickered seductively, and he kissed Ninian's swollen lips once more, reminding her of the spiraling heat of their lovemaking.  Something deep inside Ninian clenched.  Then he turned 'round and stepped out the door.

Ninian let out a wanton sigh, and slid out from underneath the coverlet.  She reached for her robe and pulled it on, walking towards the casement. Her younger sister could be seen moving along the shoreline.  Morrigan had been restless for the past few days, and the restiveness had not ceased as had been expected.   Perhaps it was the ongoing Beltane celebration, for the fires of that Night lit a searing flame of passion in all who dwelt upon the island of Avalon, as well as they who came to stay for that night alone.  

Yet Morrigan had nothing to trouble her; she was yet a maid, and was likely to remain so, and she had not the Sight that her older sister possessed, or at least it was not as clear as it had once been.  She could not perceive that awful darkness rising in the East, the Dark Lord creeping towards his throne of immeasurable power.  Ninian inhaled slowly, straining to wash the hideous specters from her mind.  Turning away from the sill, the Lady of the Lake sat in her chair by the hearth and stared into its depths, striving to collect her scattered thoughts.  As she pondered, a familiar face flickered from time to time in front of her eyes…

Morrigan had wandered on the beach for quite some time.  She could hear the echoes of the feasting and the roaring bonfires, where so many now were.  Sensuality hung on the air like dew on the silky petals of the rose; sounds of ardor unleashed mingled with the soft sighs of the water lapping upon the sandy shore, and Morrigan felt her cheeks flame with virginal discomfiture.  She could see her sister in her mind's eye, watching the celebrations from the confines of her chambers, still dressed in her ceremonial robes, the crescent moon upon her forehead a brilliant blue.  

A splashing startled the girl from her thoughts.  As she lifted her head, Morrigan was openly startled.  From out of the watery nadir came a man, or was it a boy?  Ageless he seemed in the half-light, slim, and sinewy.  He was dressed in robes of blue, and on his head was crowned a wreath of shells that seemed glowing in the milky light from the round moon.

As he drew nearer, Morrigan was surprised that she did not move away.  Instead, she found herself reaching for him, and as his arms wrapped around her, Morrigan looked up into his face.  His eyes were wise and ancient, the very color of the sea after a storm.  Morrigan reached up and traced a finger over the man's brow, then down to his strong chin.  His lips touched to hers, and Morrigan found herself swirling up, up, up…


	2. Of Reunions and Visions

A few notes:

            This story may have the tiniest chance of being a Mary-Sue, but hey.  What can I say?  I'm a sap!  

            In case of any errors, PLEASE inform me of them, but do it NICELY.  Ahem.

            And I forgot to include a disclaimer in the prologue, so, here goes:

Disclaimer: standard

The boat slid silently through the water as the early morning mists slowly burned away.  Niamh stopped herself from looking over her shoulder towards her home; Ninian was sure to be there, waiting, watching, as she had always done.  Niamh reached her hand to her forehead and traced a finger over the crescent moon that had been recently tattooed there.  Would Mother be proud?  Or would she scorn her own daughter's rank?  Surely Morrigan would not be so cold as to do such.  She had chosen a warrior's life, not the one of peace and prophetical duty that Niamh had so selflessly relinquished her precious Youth for.  

            The two oarsmen lifted their oaken paddles into the boat and knocked them against the shallow deck.  As the bottom scraped against the bank, Niamh hopped nimbly out, and then offered a sign of peace to her two escorts who, in turn, returned the gesture.  As they vanished back into the fog, Niamh faced eastwards, where she knew her destiny lay.  As she approached the first tiny hillock, her sharp eyes could see a figure approaching, and at once Niamh discarded her grave priestess manners and ran towards it.

            "Tormaigh!  My dear brother!"  As she ran, so did he, and the boy caught her midway and spun her round, laughing with his beloved sister.  Yet he was a boy no longer.  Already the beginnings of a beard grew on his handsome chin, and he had matured much since they'd seen each other last.  Instead of a scrawny thirteen year old that was not in control of his rapidly growing limbs Tor was muscled and developed, and more likely than not, quite sought-after.

            "Mo Chroí!  I have missed you!" He set her back upon the ground and took her hand in his.  "Tell me:  how fares my aunt?  Is she yet angry with my brother?  That dye must have been impossible to wash out!"

            Niamh laughed.

            "She grows wiser and fairer as the years pass.  And no, Connor is forgiven; after all, he was only six."  She paused.  "Yet my aunt is preoccupied with visions and dreams, as am I.  I fear that much toil lies ahead."

            Tor glanced at his sister from the corner of his eye.

            "Do not fret, dear heart, I shall tell you later.  In the meantime, as we are on the subject of family; how does my mother?"

            Tor grimaced.

            "She is but a fury.  Tense, the woman is, and there is naught to calm her; believe you me, we've tried."

            She also suspects, thought Niamh.  The Earth cries out in pain.  The rivers do not sing, but weep.  War…  But she turned this thought away, not yet willing to face the inevitability of the prospect.  She smiled again and squeezed her brother's warm hand lovingly.  

            The Hall of the Ancients had stood in the northern lands of Eriador for many hundreds of years.  Crafted of stone and of sacred woods, it stood, fearless and proud, upon the lustruous tor.The people of the Clan of the Wolf bustled in, out and around the centre of their home, laughing and chatting amongst themselves.  Niamh smiled as she saw the mock-fights performed by the children, remembering the feel of the wooden sword hilt in her hand for the first time.  As she passed, they stopped and smiled toothily at her, winking at the cresent on her forehead, whispering to each other behind their little hands.  Some of the older girls stood in the thresholds of their homes, regarding Tor with an eye of favor, causing Niamh to sneak a sideward glance at her brother who coughed and quickened his pace.

            As they reached the great ash doors of the Hall, they swung open, revealing a tall, slender woman, bedecked in armour and war-paint.  To any that were not familiar with the Maelstrom, she was frightening.  Her hair, dyed with both red and orange tints, appeared as if it were on fire, and her green, cat-like eyes crackled dangerously with the same ferociousness.  At her side hung the sword Fioch, and in her hands was the Cup of Welcome.

            "I have been awaiting your arrival for some time, my daughter.  Come, drink, and be you a guest in my house."  She lifted the horn in offering, and Niamh brought it to her lips, tasting with forgotten relish the mulled wine.

            Morrigan led her daughter to the main hall, where the council table rested.  Carved from stone in the Elder Days, it was the site of many a meeting; for war, others for peace; for famine, for abundance; for sickness, for health.To see it destroyed would doubtlessly mean generations of history lost, and Niamh could hardly bear the sorrow of the delusion.  

            Ahead of her walked her Mother, a woman who Niamh had not laid eyes upon since she was very young.  Morrigan had given her daughter to Avalon much sooner than was customary, though none quite knew her reasoning.  And so Niamh was raised amongst the highest of her race, with girls more or less her own age; women just out of maidenhood; mothers; crones who were in the twilit stages of life.  Year by year, the girl had toiled, heeding her aunt's advice, minding her elders, striving to become all that she could be.  Yet only once in a great while did she receive news from the home she had left so long before, and even that only came from her two brothers, who visited as often as it was allowed.  But Morrigan never came.  Excuses were given:  pirates, clans threatening to take over, bands of robbers.  And so it came as no surprise when Niamh discovered that she did not remember her Birth Mother.  Ninian was forever taking her place.

            "I suppose you already know of my troubled thoughts," began Morrigan in her commanding voice, startling Niamh unexpectedly from out of her reflections.   "It has been brought to my attention that Orcs have been spotted in the Southern Lands."  

            "Orcs?" Repeated Niamh, squinting aberrantly at the harsh, alien word.

            "Legend has it that they were once elves."  She paused as Niamh gasped, appalled.  "Yes, elves.  But the Enemy tortured them until they were marred irrevocably," continued the Maelstrom, "and they became servants of Sauron himself, though they forever hate and fear him.  Unlike the elves, they devastate that which is beautiful, and relish the agonies of others.  Yet vice is appearing in more ways than one.  Corsair vessels have been seen near our shores, bearing the crest of Southron origins.  I know not who the commander of the fleet could be, but it is certain that he serves Morgoth.  I fear that soon the Clan of the Wolf will see its darkest hour."

            Niamh sat in silence.  So it had begun.  After so many years of peace, war had again crept upon the Free Peoples, piercing through the gaunt veil that shrouded all.  Soon, what was left of it would be torn away, leaving a civilization exposed in the open, weak, leaderless.  But where Arathorn's son could be found, no one knew.  Once he had visited the North, in his wanderings, but had not stayed for long.  He had been looking for something.  What was it?  A…Gollum?  Yes, that was it!  But what kind of a creature was this Gollum?  Suddenly, an image flashed before Niamh's eyes.  A spidery creature, lithe, and grossly fascinating, was attacking something, but what was it?  As the creature struggled with the other, a small, man-like shape could be made out.  It had dark hair, but a frail, thin body; something glittered in the fray…

            "Niamh?  Daughter, what is the matter?"  With vague, unfocused eyes, daughter turned to mother.  And in a low, haunting voice, daughter spoke.

            "Isildur's Bane is found.  Doom for all is close at hand.  All will die; all will vanish into a deep, dark nothingness, if It survives, for if It falls into His hands All is lost!  Gandalf!  Mother!  _Charles_!"  Morrigan watched Niamh in shock. As she spoke, her voice had grown louder, dripping with anguish; the last word uttered, though strange, seemed to inflict most grief upon her daughter, and soon the girl was sobbing in torment, thrashing about in her chair until it tipped onto the ground, tears flooding down her young face, staining her blue robes a darker hue.  Tormaigh burst in through the door and ran to his sister.


	3. Of Revelations and Flashbacks

(AN)  Thanks for the review, Mija.  I would say more, but my mother is yelling at me to go to bed and I am rushing to get this posted.  

This chapter is, again, rather short, but I plan on making the proceeding ones longer and more explanatory.

_"Charles!"_

The cry echoed through the moors, causing a rather blonde, rather tall, and rather lost man to jump.

"What?  John!?  Where the hell are you?"

Silence.

Charles Darcy hissed through his teeth angrily and threw his pack to the ground.  He hated outings.  He was never one for out-doorsey type things, and somehow, he had been convinced into venturing out into the unknown, only to get somewhere that was definitely _not_ in the atlas.  

"Trust a Scotsman to get you lost in the first twenty minutes," he grumbled to himself as he unfolded a map.  "Of course, that's all there is to be expected from _that_ race."  He attempted to seize up his surroundings, and then peered at his map, not quite sure which way was up.  He turned it round a few times, grew frustrated, and then threw it to the ground irritably.  

"Perfect.  Absolutely brilliant.  Lost in a world full of skirt-wearing men who play instruments made out of pigs and sheep guts.  Aren't I just drunk with happiness!"  He sat upon a rock and scowled to himself.  Soon, plans of escape filled his mind, but each became more imaginative than the last.  Finally, when a toothpick, Marmite, and a stick of chewing gum became his liberation tools of choice, Charles took a deep breath and sighed, emptying his brain of all thought.  However…

Perhaps he could become a hermit!  That's it!  He could have a hut built out of peat, Marmite, and chewing gum, eat wayward tourists, and be called Charles The Hermit Who Lives In A Hut Made Of Unusual Products And Eats Wayward Tourists!  But then more tourists would flock to come and see him, for tourists are tourists… Nosy gits.

The only solutions were to (a) Wander about until said Scotsman was found, or to (b) Wander about until one gave up and died.  Or until they found a telephone.

Telephone!  That's it!  Charles' head snapped up and he felt about in his pockets for his mobile.  He found it in his trench coat; it chirped once, and then fell silent, its screen gone dark.

"Oh bloody Christ."

It was going to be one hell of a day.

"Monotony, thy name is Scotland."  

Charles kicked at the trunk of a tree that seemed peculiarly familiar.  Well, the only reason it looked familiar was because he had only passed it five times.  On finding this out, Charles discovered himself to be in a very foul mood indeed, and nothing would alter it, save for the sudden appearance of a Ritz Hotel.  It had been hours since he had last seen his hiking companion, and frankly, Charles felt that he didn't quite care to see him again, considering all the trouble he'd caused.

John Dunbar was the joint owner of The King's Head Tavern in Killinghall, Leeds.  Charles had met him on one particularly slow night, and both had downed at least seven beers when it had been decided that they would become partners.  Neither of them remembered much after that, but they afterwards concluded that it was not a problem and would leave it alone.  (The fact that they the both of them had woken up bare-chested, and in each other's arms had absolutely no effect on the resulting conclusions whatsoever.)

Business had always been mediocre, but somehow, with some Scottish trick no doubt, John had managed to get the pub packed to the brim almost every night.  It wasn't that Charles was inhospitable, or rude, or any of those nasty, despicable things.  John was just a hearty, fine-looking person, who would save you from the brink of destruction at the drop of a hat using only a pair of tweezers and some candyfloss.  Along with a neatly trimmed goatee, he sported a handsome, chiseled face, and his build not much different; Charles was attractive, but not handsome.  He was also tall and skinny.  This sometimes posed a problem, considering that most of the doorways in the tavern itself were designed for people who were incredibly vertically challenged.  Therefore, he was forced to stoop his way through the inn constantly.  Charles was also a very, for lack of a better term, artistic person.  Whereas John would save you from the brink of destruction with only his bare hands, Charles was more likely to talk his way out of the situation using words that even Ginsberg would describe as lengthy.  He was the kid who never applied himself at school, but always received high 'O' levels indicating that he could possibly become the cause of another string of Napoleonic Wars.  

It had been two years since that fateful (yet hazy) night, and one fine day, in early spring, John had announced that he was going home to Scotland, and that Charles was coming as well, although he had not had any say in the matter.  Understandably, Charles had protested; going to a place where once the inhabitants had fought wars naked and painted blue was really rather disturbing, but in the end, he had grudgingly agreed to go after John had pointed out that watching 'Changing Rooms' and old episodes of 'Monty Python's Flying Circus' in the early hours of the morning was a complete waste of a perfectly perfect life.  Well, it had been a perfectly perfect life up until the day he had stepped into this wretched place.

Something fluttered to his left; Charles jumped for the second time that day.  It was eerie there, on the abandoned moor, and he shivered.  So many things had taken place in the mists.  William Wallace, liberator of the Scots, had walked here, perhaps fought the English in that very spot.  Countless wars, raids, ambushes, deaths, births, treaties, promises; the essence grew up from the ground; from every rock, tree, and shrub it came, sprung to life in the very air.  Charles panted breathlessly at the wonder of it all, struck dumb with the sadness, the joy, the passion.  The Earth loved Her people, and this She made evident in the moments that next passed.   All Charles could do was stand in place, rooted to the ground on which he stood, swept away in absoluteness of his home.  Yes.  His home.  Such a place could be nothing else.  Tears ran from his eyes at the thought.  The very idea of Belonging near brought him to his knees. But a voice in his head told him to stop.  To regain his senses.  Shaken from out of his trance, Charles looked about embarrassedly, secretly hoping that no one had been around to see _that_.

But he did not have much time to recover.  As Charles readjusted his pack, he did feel the tremors.  The auras of both Man and Nature clashed and meshed together as one.  Charles' eyes widened as he was knocked to the ground, and he knew no more.

(AN)  So…?  Whaddaya think?  Please review, those damn things are the food and drink on which I thrive upon.  DON"T LEAVE ME TO STARVE!!!


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